


The Travelling Display

by OldChum



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Comedy, Derring-Do, Gen, mysterious boxes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldChum/pseuds/OldChum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not easy guarding an amazing magical museum, but Tilly is getting it done one day at a time. Luckily, she never has to handle big crazy adventures the way Larry used to. It's just the one ancient tablet, the absolute most annoying figures in British history, and the occasional immortal super villain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought Tilly deserved her own gigantic disaster.

 

 

“Yeah, no, it’s just like guarding stuff at night is way harder than guarding stuff during the day, so you can take your attitude and shove it up your bum.” Tilly told the two day guards, while they were standing around the loading dock, waiting to be briefed on the new exhibit.

“Just shove it right up. So that it’s really uncomfortable, and when you try to sit down it’s like: ‘I can’t, because my incorrect opinion is stopping me from getting comfortable. If only I wasn’t such a giant tit all the time. Then I could just sit down like a normal person!’”

Lester was content to just roll his eyes. He was just going to sip his coffee, get his briefing and go home, but Ben wouldn’t leave it alone. He always had to pick fights with Tilly, and she suspected it was because he was secretly in love with her. She wasn’t interested, though. He was too stuck-up to sing karaoke at the Christmas do, so he was probably going to die alone.

“I’m sorry,” Ben chortled, “How is night guarding more difficult? You don’t have any patrons trying to touch shit, and little children asking questions about things that didn’t even happen. Like the year the Vikings landed in Ireland.”

“Patrons ain’t nothing compared to…” Tilly cleared her throat and trailed off into a mumble. Not telling everybody the most awesome secret of all time was the worst part of knowing the most awesome secret of all time.

“Compared to what?” Ben smirked.

“Compared to the crushing loneliness of working in a tiny booth by yourself for eight hours! Lord Nelson says that the people with the boring jobs are the unsung heroes of great battles, because they’re the ones who don’t get thanked but they keep the navy floating.”

“He never said that.”

“He says it all the fucking time! You can’t get him to stop saying it!”

Lester sighed while he texted someone on his phone.

“Nelson’s dead, Tilly,” he said without looking up.

Tilly’s mouth dropped open.

“God, Lester. Rude. Just, so rude.” She shook her head, “Like, everybody knows Nelson is dead, okay? You’re gonna hurt his feelings.”

Before the conversation could continue, Dr. Chalton DeWinter-Mumsbury strode meaningfully into the room. He was a short, spritely, middle aged man with salt and pepper hair, and a full beard. He was wearing a grey tweed suit, along with the laminated badge that identified him as director of temporary exhibits.  Tilly thought he was alright most of the time, but would probably try to exploit the awesome magic of the Tablet of Ahkmenrah for financial gain if he knew about it. Probably. She had no real evidence that he would, but he kind of looked like the bloke who was the Nazi in that Tarantino one, so best not to take chances.

“All of you are here? Good.” Dr. DeWinter-Mumsbury rubbed his hands together and look at the crates of recently transferred exhibits with a definite gleam in his eye. “For the next three months, we will be home to a beautiful selection of 16th century Slovakian portraits and decorative wears!”

“That’s tremendous!” Ben cheered.

“Any figurines or anything?” Tilly asked.

“When you say decorative wares, do you mean penis statues again?” Lester asked, “Just because I don’t feel comfortable around penis statues, so I like to be warned. Don’t like turning a corner and getting a great big cock in my face, sir.”

“Yeah, but are the portraits of people? If so, who are they and can I google them?” Tilly waved off Lester’s comment.

Soon, all three guards were talking over one another, Ben kissing up as loudly as he could, Tilly making important night guard related queries, and Lester muttering about dicks.  Dr. DeWinter-Mumsbury silenced them with a gesture that was halfway between the zip-it hand and the thing conductors do the stop the orchestra.

It worked.

“It is a grouping of household décor items, such as vanity tables, sofas, mirrors, items of that nature. There are no figurines or fertility totems, and the portraits are of prominent nobles of that period. Each of you has been emailed a pdf detailing notable exhibits, should the patrons ask you about them.”

“Tilly doesn’t deal with patrons, sir.” Ben smiled, “She handles the crushing loneliness of the night.”

“Yes, well. Better prepared than unprepared in any case,” the director shrugged.

“Can we use the office printer, sir?” Tilly asked.

“Certainly. It’s a work-related document. There are no restrictions on printing work-related documents. The restrictions you do have are becausesomeone – and there’s no way to prove it was a guard, I’ll be the first to admit – printed three copies of the entirety of Macbeth off of Gutenberg press.”

Tilly wondered if she should maybe just admit that it was her. The marble statue of Shakespeare asked her to. He wanted to work on some corrections.

“It was Tilly,” said Ben.

“No! I don’t even like Shakespeare! He’s always making up words and showing off his stupid pirate beard like it’s so cool, and it’s not!”

“Everyone at the British Museum likes Shakespeare,” Dr. DeWinter-Mumsbury admonished, “even if we are faking it and think Romeo and Juliet is a terrible play to teach to teenagers.”

“It does set a bad example in regards to sexual activity and suicides, sir.” Ben nodded smugly.

“Back to the topic at hand, the displays will be put up tomorrow at six a.m. and will be ready for public viewing by next week. Tonight, they stay in the crates. And Tilly? That means they stay in the crates. No helping, like we tried to do with the seahawk carvings Seattle lent us.”

“I shouldn’t have no trouble with vanities and sofas, sir. It’s not like they can walk around like in Beauty and the Beast, singing songs about how I should totally get back in the dating game, and making me over with the help of porcelain hairbrushes and fancy golden mirrors…”

Tilly trailed off and looked at the boxes, wondering.

“Such a fertile imagination! Museums do need dreamers!” The director said cheerfully, before his face reverted to a mask of deadly seriousness, “No touching, Tilly. At all. Alright, that about does it. Lester, Ben, you’re free to leave for home. Tilly, have a good night of—“

Before he could finish, the sundown alarm on Tilly’s phone beeped. She snapped to attention.

“THANK YOU, DOCTOR! EVERYONE SHOULD LEAVE NOW!” She ushered everyone out of the loading dock with a practiced sweeping motion that would have impressed an air raid marshal.

“Think you’re territorial enough?” Lester chuckled, and headed for the locker room.

The other two men stopped in the Great Court, ignoring the massive hint that they should leave right away.

“Another wonderful briefing, Dr. DeWinter-Mumsbury. You always make history come to life!” Ben said, enthusiastically shaking the director’s hand.

“Don’t be stupid, Ben! The museum does not come to life! Go HOME!” Tilly said.

Ben shrugged, having completed his mission of sucking up to the boss, and ducked out the main doors. As they closed behind him, the court rumbled with a sound like creaking bronze in the nearby galleries. Tilly’s eyes got wide, as she looked to see if Dr. DeWinter-Mumsbury had noticed.

It looked like he had. He was frowning and turning his head towards the direction of the Egyptian Room, so Tilly stepped in front of his gaze.

“They really need to oil those doors! They sound like a colossus farting! Not that I know what that sounds like!” She laughed, trying to resist the urge to look over her shoulder just to make sure no Anubi were casually strolling into the room behind her. “Well, you’d best be getting home to your…”

She suddenly remembered that the good doctor’s whole life was the museum.

“…books on Richard III, and David Attenborough box sets?”

The director nodded reluctantly.

“You know, Tilly. I think Ben is trying to get promoted to tour guide. To be honest, I’m sure it’s the only reason he’s so flattering. I don’t mind, but I don’t think he’d be a good fit for a position like that. Modern patrons need their history to have vivacity, and a quality of the fantastic. I think that you’re the sort of person who understands that. Have you ever thought of applying for a tour guide position?”

“Oh. Um. No,” Tilly wrinkled her nose, “I kind of hate children. And tourists. Besides, I like the night shift. It’s giving me a chance to work on my novel.”

“Oh, you’re writing a novel?”

“It’s about this blonde girl with a super hot ponytail, and she’s being raised by a clan of ninjas who are responsible for repairing, like, all the gaps in history. It turns out she’s half mermaid, but she doesn’t know it yet. And she was also Cleopatra for part of the time, because they look just alike, and they switch sometimes when Cleopatra is tired of being pharaoh. She also wrote all of Jane Austen’s books.”

“That sounds… interesting…”

The unmistakable sound of bone claws clicked along the upper balcony of the court. Tilly tried to stay calm.

“I will email you the first seventy chapters. They are dynamite. Lots of really graphic sex scenes. Anyway, get out of the museum now! Bye bye!”

Dr. DeWinter-Mumsbury chuckled uncomfortably, nodded, and headed out the main doors, swinging his briefcase. Tilly practically chased him out, and when she was sure he was gone, she heaved a sigh of relief, turning to face the interior of the gallery.

Lancelot was leaning on the information desk, looking vaguely disgusted. Beside him, Trixie was crouching expectantly, with her skeletal tail wagging behind her.

“It is so sad when people don’t realize that nobody likes them,” Lancelot sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Garuda was not fond of serpents. In fact, if he had his own way, he would be out in the cold English night, killing all the garden snakes. But he had to stay inside, lest his mission guide him too far and sunlight turn his form to ash. So, instead, he made the museum his beat. It wasn’t so bad. For the last seven months – the only seven months he’d been awake for – he’d developed a routine. First he stole one of Tilly’s yogurts from the brake room fridge, and one of the plastic spoons from the café in the Great Court. Sometimes, he also pinched strawberries from there, if Tilly had brought a boring flavour like vanilla. Then, he went around to all the snakes and dragons in the museum and made sure they weren’t trying to poison people. That’s what serpents did, and that’s what made them bad.

Long, long ago, Buddha had tried to make peace between the Garudas and the Nagas. Which was a nice idea. It was. But the Nagas kept messing it up, and what were the Garudas going to do? _Not_ hunt down all the snakes and murder them and eat them? Garuda laughed just thinking about it.

He was clanking along the floor, the yogurt in one hand and the spoon in the other, when he passed by the door to the storage rooms and felt compelled to stop.

There was something in the aura of the door that was different. Ominously different.

It smelled toxic to Garuda. The same lethal venom that made all serpents vile and wicked might as well have been leeching into the air around it.

Well, it was his responsibility to protect the world from such things. He steeled himself, thought about leaving his yogurt outside, decided to bring it, and went into the storage area.

The heavy door swung closed behind him, as soft as a whisper.

 

* * *

 

 

Lancelot had elected himself First Knight of the British Museum, and he took his totally made up duties very seriously. Unfortunately for Tilly, those duties were apparently to follow her around and complain about everything she did.

“Do you think Huge Ackman would come and do a theatrical play for us one evening?” Lancelot mused, watching Tilly plug in one of the educational TV’s for the Japanese gallery. “I know him personally.”

“Yeah. Did I ever tell you that I know half of British history personally, and it doesn’t matter at all? Like, there is no fringe benefit to knowing Shakespeare. None.”

“Well, obviously not. Shakespeare is a total windbag.”

Tilly finished hooking up the television to her laptop and turned to the images of people painted next to haiku, and in intricate landscapes. A few figurines also crowded around to watch, and the full set of samurai armor turned its demonic looking mask towards the screen.

“Okay, guys. Want some Ninja Scroll, or Vampire Boyfriend Pop Pop?”

The inhabitants of the gallery conferred quietly with one another in Japanese. Finally, one of the samurai painted on a silk came forward with the answer.

“Alf.” He said, very solemnly.

“Are you serious?” Tilly made no effort to hide her disappointment. Ever since she’d starting showing movies and TV shows to the less mobile exhibits, all the Japanese stuff ever wanted to watch was Alf. Except when they took a break to watch Full House. She honestly had no idea why.

“Alf. Please.”

“Fine, but one time, I’m going to put on Sailor Moon, and you guys are going to be totally blown away by how much she reminds you of me.”

“Terrible taste.” Lancelot said after the show was running and he and Tilly were on the next leg of their rounds, “I mean, have you shown them Mr. Bean? Because—“

Lancelot doubled over laughing, and held up a finger to try and make Tilly wait.

“Yeah,” she said, “I know. The one with the turkey.”

“He gets his whole head…” Lancelot gasped between laughs, “ _stuck_ inside the turkey! And he walks around, like…”

Lancelot put on his silly face and tried to walk like Mr. Bean with a turkey on his head. Tilly waited patiently. It really wasn’t a very good impression.

“Like that! Just like that!” He took a deep breath to get his composure back, “It was actually quite touching for me the first time I saw it. It reminded me so much of Larry.”

Tilly put her hands on her hips and did the duckface that meant she was not pleased with the direction of the conversation.

“I honestly cannot believe you said that.”

“What? What was wrong with that?”

“I have told you a million times to _stop bringing up Larry!_ ” She said, “I know that you thought that he was glamorous and everything, but you knew him for _one night!_ One night, Lancelot! This isn’t the Larry Daley Appreciation Club, it is the British Museum – otherwise known as Tilly’s Historical Society of Secret Magic. Okay? Larry’s era is over, the torch has been passed, and you and Hot Pharaoh need to shut your gobs about it!”

The distinctly heavy footfalls of Roubiliac’s marble Shakespeare echoed behind them in the corridor.

“Ah, jubilious nightspark, fair companions! Have I chanced to come upon ye in such loured moods, that not even the appearance of Gloriana’s most precious of scribes could place lipturns of joy upon thy headfaces?”

“Hi, Shakespeare.” Tilly said dryly.

“Those aren’t words, Shakespeare.”

“And am I to take heed of the opinations of the most combrous of Arthur’s court? Bah! Words are the provinsia of they who would forge them.”

“Yeah,” Tilly decided to calm the situation before it escalated. “But Lancelot’s kind of right. You should trying using all of the kickass words you’ve _already_ invented instead of inventing new ones. Like elbow! That was a winner!”

“Wait, what did you call me?” Lancelot tossed his hair indignantly.

Shakespeare just smiled a winsome smile, and waved as he continued down the corridor.

“Later, gator!” He called behind him.

“Honestly, if I’d have known he would keep saying that, I never would have said it in front of him.” Tilly confessed.

 

* * *

 

 

The storage rooms were usually quiet. The first section was the archives, which housed small drawings, documents, and various other paper bric-a-brac that were occasionally rotated into displays. Inside, Garuda could hear the calm clip clopping of the horses in pastoral drawings, and the gossiping of the sketch of the Bronte sisters. The density of the poison in the air was almost suffocating as he pressed on down the hall, past the smaller antiquities who were picking a fight with a bronze miniature.

He continued on until he came to the loading dock, and the crates destined for the temporary exhibit. They were definitely the source of the trouble. He opened up his yogurt, and gave them a suspicious once-over.

Nothing seemed to have come to life in this area. Not even the portraits, which Garuda would have expected to be murmuring. The noxious aura was mingling with the weightiness of decay. It seeped into the very walls and floor.

There was simply no other option. He would have to quarantine the whole area.

 

* * *

 

 

The Egyptian displays of the British Museum had a sweeping grandeur and authenticity that had not been present in New York. Everything about them was designed to mimic a real pharaoh’s tomb, right down the stuffy claustrophobia and the inconvenience of being buried for eternity with one’s parents.

Ahkmenrah had not realized how much he had come to enjoy the diversity of being part of a mid-sized museum until he was trapped in the galleries of a large one.

“Oh, I do miss having more servants around,” Merenkahre sighed, “Perhaps we could fetch some slaves from one of the other displays? I’m sure they’d be happy to come and work for us. We are, after all, the only _true_ royalty. And our display is by far the finest.”

“Perhaps we could ask Tilly if anyone is available,” Shepseheret suggested airily.

“And I was worried you two wouldn’t have any massively inappropriate ideas tonight,” Ahkmenrah mumbled.

“What did you say, Sunshine?” his father asked.

“Nothing. I’m going for a walk.”

On his way out, the young Pharaoh passed the colossus of Ramses II.

“Trouble with mumsy and daddums?” Ramses asked, with all the sensitivity of a head cheerleader.

“Die in a fire, Ramses.”

He strolled into the Great Court, where he found Tilly and Lancelot in the middle of yet another argument. Larry and Teddy had been much better suited to being guardians. Theodore Roosevelt had led a young empire, ridden into the field of battle countless times, and one time saved a bear cub. As far as Ahkmenrah had been able to discern, Sir Lancelot was chiefly remembered for dipping his pen in the company ink.

“I don’t know why you’re making this a thing,” Lancelot was saying. “Do you know how I made friends with Trixie? I hit her in the face. It’s called _diplomacy_.”

“Whatever, Sir Punch-a-lot,” Tilly answered. “If I catch you smacking around any of the other exhibits again—“

“Oh, come on! It was Hadrian! If he doesn’t deserve to get smacked in the back of the head with a gauntlet—“

“I don’t care!” Tilly shouted, “I do not care what you think of Emperor Hadrian and his short little walls, okay? _Don’t hit the other exhibits_!”

Ahkmenrah wondered if it might be better to turn around and go spend the evening with his parents, which was a monstrously depressing notion. But before he could make up his mind either way, Tilly noticed that he was in the room.

“Oh, hey,” she smiled, playing cool. “Just telling Lancelot what a total cock he is. You know, cuz it’s pretty much like seventy percent of my life right now. How’s it going? Everything alright in your occult Egyptian moon kingdom full of gold and dog-headed men?”

“Ah-ha! An unbiased third party!” Lancelot nodded at Ahkmenrah. “You think Hadrian needs to be taken down a peg, right? Just a bit too full of himself.”

“I think there’s a chance that you’re projecting your own insecurities onto other people.” Ahkmenrah drawled, and turned to Tilly. “There’s a new temporary exhibit, yes? Perhaps we ought to go and say hello to our guests.”

“There aren’t any.” Tilly shrugged, “Like some portraits, but portraits are really chill. They can just go explore their own backgrounds, and we’ll talk to them when the crates get opened tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Ahkmenrah made no efforts to hide his disappointment. Something at the other end of the room caught his eye, “What’s Garuda doing?”

The trio looked over to see the small golden statue dutifully setting up the velvet ropes from the information desk around the door to the storage area.

“It looks like he’s making a little nightclub,” Tilly smiled. “Aw, that’s so fun! Do you think he’s going to invite all the other statues from Tibet and serve little drinks and yogurts? I’d better buy some more yogurts for him.”

Lancelot chuckled, watching the statue work. “He is so cute.”

“Hm,” Ahkmenrah sighed, “I suppose I’ll go and see the Celts.”

“Living dangerously.” Tilly nodded.

“Don’t let them paint your face,” Lancelot whispered, “It always looks terrible.”

He and Tilly watched as the Pharaoh rolled his eyes and headed for the upstairs hallway.

“Does he seem kind of upset to you?” Tilly asked.

“Something is definitely wrong. Why else would he lash out and call totally confident people insecure?” Lancelot chuckled boldly, and cleared his throat. “I’m not insecure.”

“Nah,” Tilly shook her head. “You’re not. You’re obviously not.”


End file.
